Baubles
by Acciodoublestuffed
Summary: This is where I keep my baubles, all the spare bits that are neither here nor there. Oneshots.
1. An Acquired Taste

**Summary:** Mary Margaret invites Rose French over for dinner; Emma is not pleased.

**Prompt: **Mr. Gold and Belle's Relationship from MM's POV **  
Prompt: **Belle finds an engagement ring in Gold's pocket**  
**

* * *

"How was the store?" Emma asks, as Mary Margaret enters their apartment.

"It was fine. They didn't have your brand of shampoo, so I got you a different one. Hope that's okay."

"No problem," she takes a few bags out of the other woman's arms. "Thanks for trying."

"Oh, and I ran into Rose French at the check-out aisle," she says, slipping the milk into the refrigerator. "I think I'm going to invite her over for dinner."

Emma's hand freezes from where she'd been about to put away the cereal. She groans. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Mary Margaret asks, completely oblivious to her roommate's implications.

The blonde looks at the schoolteacher expectantly, "Because the chick's out there. "

"Emma! You said so yourself that she isn't crazy." Mary Margaret remembers the late night talks over the insane asylum scandal. Emma had been furious, going without sleep for days trying to sort it all out.

"I don't think she's crazy, but I don't think she's firing on all cylinders either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Emma shakes her head at the wide-eyed innocent putting away vegetables. Mary Margaret was truly hopeless-all that optimism couldn't be healthy. "You know what I mean. She's dating Mr. Gold."

"Emma, you told me you dated an older guy once."

"It's not the age-thing I have a problem with."

"That what's the big deal?"

"Well for starters, he beat up her dad. Not to mention, they're hardly ever outside of each other's grasp. I've seen all-over-each-other couples before, but not like this. You have got to admit, it's weird."

"I think they're sweet."

"'Course you do." Emma sighs, knowing her roommate is not to be deterred. "Fine. Whatever, if you can get her warden to let her out for the night, then have at it. Just don't expect me to stick around.

* * *

Rose French comes over for dinner that Thursday evening.

In the end, Mary Margaret had been unable to convince Emma to stay. However, she may have mentioned that Rose was coming over three hours earlier than her actual arrival time. So when Emma comes home from her short notice late-shift, it's only five minutes after their guest. "How was-" She looks up and see the two of them at the bar, wine glasses in hand. "Rose... hi."

"It's so good to see you, Emma."

"I told Rose about your shift, and she just insisted that we wait for you," Mary Margaret lies, smiling. It's the most un-innocent thing Emma has seen from her roommate.

With the exception of the whole affair-with-a-married-guy thing.

"Yeah, how about pouring me a glass?"

The dinner reeks of tension. But not as much as Mary Margaret expected. So that's good.

They blow through topics. Rose's new job at the library. How the children at Mary Margaret's school are progressing-including how the science fair went. Emma's fruitless search for a deputy. Thrilling stuff.

Also, Emma blows through the wine. Which is why, Mary Margaret assumes, when an awkward silence falls upon the table-the the food did turn out nicely, she had made Italian-her roommate brings up the elephant in the room. "So, how did you and Mr. Gold meet?"

Mary Margaret glares at Emma, but listens intently as the girl answers.

"I worked in his shop, and it all just sort of happened from there."

"Oh that's sweet," Mary Margaret coos.

"I didn't know Mr. Gold ever hired help for his store," Emma says, poking at the town rumor.

"You could say it was more of a trade, really, to work off some of my father's payments. I suppose my father's debt actually worked out in my favor for once."

Emma raises her eyebrows and drains her cup, but doesn't say anything further on the topic of Mr. French.

"So you guys seem pretty serious," Mary Margaret says, trying to ease the growing tension. "You think we'll have a wedding in town soon?" Rose blushes, neither Emma nor Mary Margaret could miss it. "Rose is there something you're not telling us?" The schoolteacher's eyes go to her left hand, but it bears no ring.

"No, nothing like that. It's just," she pauses, smiling, "can you keep a secret."

"Oh, of course," Mary Margaret says, leaning forward. When Emma doesn't reply, she nudges her under the table. "Oh, yeah, sure."

"Well, I was putting away one of his suits the other day, and I found a ring box in his pocket."

"Oh my gosh! That's so exciting! When do you think it'll happen?"

"I don't know. I mean, it might be all for nothing. It could have been for the shop."

"No, I'm sure it's for you. That's what you want, right?"

"Yes, it is. I hope you're right."

"Have you thought about dresses or colors?"

"Not really, I can't even imagine a big wedding. I suspect his half of the seating wouldn't be terribly full."

Emma snorts into her wine glass. Both women look at her, Mary Margaret with a glare, Rose with concern. It's suddenly all too much for Emma. "Yeah, I'm going to turn in for the night. Long day and all." She stands, taking her dishes to the sink. She walks back and gives their guest a nod. "Glad you're doing okay, Rose."

When Emma's bedroom door shuts, Mary Margaret apologizes, "I'm sorry, she can be-"

"It's quite alright. I'm well-acquainted with the town's view of my boyfriend."

Mary Margaret thinks back on her lawyer, who though capable was never warm or congenial. "Can I ask, does he act differently around you?"

Rose shrugs, "No, not really, but I like him for who he is."

Mary Margaret feels her brow wrinkle, but tries to shake it off. She stands and collects up the plates. "I'm sorry, it's just a little..."

"Strange?"

"Well, yeah," she says, taking up cheesecake onto dessert plates.

"I know he's not the friendliest person in the world, but he's honest. To be honest, I've been through a lot and after experiencing everything I have, I don't think I could be with someone who, oh, I don't know-"

"Wears rose-colored glasses?" Mary Margaret supplies, walking back with their two plates.

Rose laughs, "Yes, exactly."

There's a knock on the door. Mary Margaret sets down the plates and turns to the door, opening it, she finds the man in question, "Mr. Gold."

"Good evening, Miss Blanchard, I do believe you have something of mine." Okay, she thinks, maybe Emma was right; the possessive-thing is kind of weird.

"I heard that."

He looks expectantly at Mary Margaret. "Oh right, yes, please come on in."

Gold goes to stand behind Rose's chair. "Hello, dear," he says, putting his hands on her shoulders.

Rose turns to look at him, placing a hand on one of his, "You're a bit early. Mary Margaret just took up dessert."

"Ah, I see. Well I can return in a bit to pick you up, if you'd like."

"No, stay. Sit, there's enough for everyone," Mary Margaret pipes up, as a door opens and then promptly shuts again, in the direction of Emma's bedroom.

Gold chuckles, "I see the sheriff is previously engaged."

The two women chuckle awkwardly, but the pawnbroker takes a seat next to Rose, helping himself to a glass of wine, as Mary Margaret goes back to the bar, to get him a piece of cheesecake. He swirls the cup with an air of class, taking in the fragrance before tasting. He raises the glass to Mary Margaret. "Fine vintage, Miss Blanchard, a good choice."

Approval from Mr. Gold, also weird. She watches as the man turns to Rose, "How did you find it, dear?"

Rose gives him a knowing smirk. "I thought it very good. Rich, full, not overly tannic."

"Did you?" he says, matching her expression.

It's an inside joke, Mary Margaret realizes, "What?"

The two continue to look at each other. Gold raises an eyebrow, shall we tell her? Rose smiles, go ahead. "I have been attempting to expand Miss French's wine palate."

"He says I only like dessert wines," Rose adds, laughing.

"Don't give me that look. Not my fault you only had a taste for cloying, syrupy-what do you call them?"

"Spritzers."

"Spritzers before me, m'dear. You've not the most attuned palate, but you're young still," he says, smiling.

Rose swats him on the arm. "My palate is plenty attuned, thank you very much."

Mary Margaret watches the banter, captivated and oddly jealous. She brings over his plate. "It's okay, Rose, I don't like wines that are too dry, either."

"Dry is an acquired taste, not a natural draw," Gold states.

"It's easy to love sweet," Mary Margaret says, slowly, having a bit of an epiphany.

"Indeed," Gold says, eyeing her with his weighty stare.

The three share their dessert, talking over the weather and town goings-on, the couple's eyes darting to the other every few minutes. They are very much in love, Mary Margaret thinks.

When they've finishes, Gold thanks her for the dessert, complimenting it as well, standing to leave. After he helps Rose into her coat-she'd rolled her eyes, but didn't seem too opposed to his chivalry-she hugs Mary Margaret, promising to call her next week for lunch.

When they are gone, the apartment feels rather empty.

Mary Margaret has just started to wash the dishes when Emma peaks her head out of the her room. "Is it safe?"

"Yeah, they just left."

Emma comes out in pajamas. She walks over to the sink. "I got this."

"Don't worry. I can do them."

She nudges her friend, "No, seriously, let me. You cooked." _And I was a jerk_.

Mary Margaret finally gives the sink over to Emma and then on second thought, pours herself another glass of the not overly tannic wine, taking a seat at the bar. She takes a sniff of her glass, but she doesn't notice anything too different from any other wine. Wine just smells like wine to her.

"So did Gold handcuff her immediately or just before leaving?"

Mary Margaret laughs, "Emma."

"Kidding, but seriously, what did you three talk about?"

"Nothing, really." An acquired taste. "I think they really like each other."

The sheriff turns off the water and wipes her hands on the kitchen towel. "Well, just so we're clear, I'm not being a bridesmaid."

"After tonight, who knows, maybe she won't ask you." Mary Margaret makes a face, forcing them both to laugh.

"Here's hoping." She grabs up the plate of cheesecake Mary Margaret had left for her. "Oh, and I'm not going over to Gold's place for dinner anytime soon."

"She didn't offer that." Mary Margaret says, wondering if Emma will make a joke about not being allowed to have friends over, but the blonde refrains. "We'll just leave them be." She likes the idea, not that Rose can't invite anyone over, but rather that she enjoys giving her space, her home, with Mr. Gold some privacy, some sanctity. If they'd found happiness, Mary Margaret thinks, best not to disturb it.


	2. Northern Light or Hell and Baelfire

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing

**Summary: **_**"**__I didn't know we could see the northern lights from here, wherever here is." Charcoal eyes smiles, "Oh yes, you can always see the lights, from any world—even where we're going."_ There's a blizzard in Storybrooke. G/B

**Prompt:** **"**Belle ends up with Baelfire"

* * *

"_And is it true, about mother? You told me she was dead."_

"_She is dead."_

* * *

All the children have disappeared, Mary Margaret thinks. Gone off to Neverland—or rather the woods around Storybrooke. She smiles and sips her morning coffee. It'll be hours before the tow trucks clear a path from the residential streets. Books, science experiments and ideas written by stuffy adults can wait; let them be children for just one more day, maybe two.

Perhaps when Emma rolls out of bed they can bundle up and go to the diner for hot cocoa. Unless of course she can escape for a while with Henry to play in this wintry wonderland of theirs.

* * *

It was always dark in her little dungeon, and it was always cold. She's not surprised, of course, because this isn't exactly her first dungeon. Yes, it looks a touch different, but a dungeon nonetheless.

But why is it still so cold?

She thinks she'd like to ask the nurse, but then it's not time for the return of the fog. Or rather, she's not quite awake enough to be expecting it to end anytime soon.

She thinks she would most definitely _not_ want to see her other visitor. The woman of the road, worse than any dreaded mermaid from a lagoon. She would only make it colder, Belle knows.

So cold. She rubs her arms to try to bring back some of the feeling, when suddenly there's a person in her room.

"Hello."

It's a child. A child with chocolate locks and charcoal eyes. How odd; she thinks she's seen those eyes once before, somewhere. Belles tilt her head to get a better look past her knotted hair.

"I imagine you've seen the snow."

"No, I haven't."

The boy—for he is a boy, can't be older than fourteen and that's still a child—points out her tiny window, high above. "Take a look."

Belle cranes her neck. "Oh, I see it. Beautiful."

"Aye." He takes a step closer. However did this strange boy get in, she wonders, and what's more she notices he has no shoes on his feet.

"My goodness, you're barefoot! You'll catch cold!"

The child laughs. "I've no need for shoes. You see I've got magic."

"So that's how you got in."

"No, I used the door. Magic has a price, you see, so I use doors whenever I can." The boy smirks, and Belle knows that look. He's showing off for her. "But it's true: I have magic." He takes another step, as she rubs her arms—_isn't he cold?—_and bends over a touch to look her in the eye. "You're smart, I think."

That's when she notices his nose. His little button nose, looks as if its been carved from ice, and matched with that curly mop, soft as new fallen snow, Belle immediately thinks him an easy thing to love. "I was once."

He smiles at that, with shining white teeth, almost as bright as the stars she can spot from her tower window. "Good. The children need a smart mother."

"Mother?"

"Yes, of course. That's why I'm here. Only the brave ones can travel so far, and fetching a mother is _very_ far indeed."

Belle wrinkles her brow and wonders at this boy—alive and here, but demon or savior? In any case, she already loves the little thing. "I could be your mother," she whispers, "though I have little experience."

"That's not true. I heard you're a caretaker."

She laughs and her voice cracks, because it's the first in who knows how long. The cold sound bounces around her and the man-child. Then it falls, like snow. "Whoever told you that?"

"My papa, of course."

She smirks, "Where would you take me, if I am to be the mother?"

"To where all the children go, out where the dreams live."

The words enter her ears like a crackling fire; she imagines the place is warm. She imagines the place is home. "That sounds nice."

"Oh it is… mother." The child's smile drops for the first time. "I can call you that, can't I?"

This is a choice only she can make. She's glad to have one of those again. "As you wish."

"Haven't had a mother in a long time." The boy shrugs. "But remember—you mustn't trust strangers—except me, of course."

Yes, she learned that lesson a long time back. "You're no stranger; you're my son." She pauses to rub her arms again, slower this time. "I'll be a good mother, you have my word."

He smiles wide again at that and skips about her dungeon cell, narrowly missing the chains and shackles scattered about. "People are leaving now; perhaps we should too."

"Yes, I don't want to get caught in traffic," Belle says, though she has no idea what _that_ phrase even means, nonetheless from where it stems.

"Come on then," her boy says, reaching out a hand. "I've no fairy dust; you'll just have to use your own magic for this one."

Belle recoils, "But how—"

"It's true," the boy shrugs. "I've no dust. Used it up, oh, _forever_ ago."

"No, what I meant was, I don't have magic."

The boy frowns, confused. "Of course you do. You've had magic for sometime now. It's just been asleep."

Belle blinks; the boy's cheeks are so red, like apples, or lipstick from who knows where (_a commercial—no, that can't be right. She's no _idea _what that even is. Lipstick, not hers though. She always wore pink_). "However did I get it?"

The boy with charcoal eyes shrugs. "Same way I got mine, I suppose."

She nods. That's as good an answer as any, and finally takes his hand, the hand of her _son_, her son with charcoal eyes (she'll have to stop calling him that, however), she shivers, for his hand burns like ice. "Will it be warm there, dear? I'm dreadfully cold."

He smiles, bright and white as any star in any direction, "Oh yes, very warm." Then he nudges her shoulder, "Look," he points up. "You can see the northern lights tonight."

"I didn't know we could see the northern lights from here," she pauses and adds, "wherever here is."

Charcoal eyes smiles at her, "Oh yes, you can always see the lights, from any world—even where we're going."

"Really? That sounds lovely," she sighs, reminiscing. "But back in my old life, I watched them once." She waits for him to call her crazy; he doesn't. Good son. "Well, I was taken to see them."

"Yes, yes, I was too," he says waving her off—not crazy in the least.

"What's your name, my son?" she asks, standing. Oh look, her feet are bare too.

"You know my name. Papa told you once."

"Yes," she yawns and stretches; she can hardly feel the cold at all now—must be his warmth rubbing off. Ah, there, the door is appearing a bit more open now. Their magic must be working. "You're right. Of course he did."

As they walk through the open door, he says, "And I don't need your name, because you're _mother_ now."

"Mother now. Perhaps a bit too young to have a son so old." She says, as they exit the white and chemical castle and take to the streets.

"I'm not _very _old. Certainly no grown up."

"True, but—" she stops speaking, her gasp taking precedent. "The lights. I can see them now. There they are. Oh, son, they're so beautiful."

"Told you." He tugs on her hand. "So, are you ready now, mother? You do know the way, surely? Past the second star to—"

"The right. Yes, I think I remember now." She squeezes his little hand, "Let's go, Bae."

They walk onward, and though her feet are bare, the snow feels like nothing, like air, like _freedom_. As they pass the clock tower, she stops, curious. "One last question."

The boy sighs. They are always so impatient at this age. "Just one, and then we have to go before it's too late."

"Will Papa be there?"

"Soon."

* * *

Mr. Gold sits in the diner and watches—as he does many a night. He can cook for himself, but on cold nights like these, when his limbs complain for just the slightest movement, he prefers to be taken care of, always has.

He watches the old woman huff. Wouldn't be too long before the loose granddaughter has to mortgage the place to pay for funeral expenses. Gold can't say he'll miss the old nag; she had a way of being both pathetic and grating, simultaneously. An oddity, even to him.

He watches the growing number of mothers twitter about the greasy eatery. Regina came in to drag out the poor boy, away from his birth mother and playmate for the day. The fair princess and her grown daughter made an appearance stayed on a bit afterward, cheeks red as any fairy tale roses. Gold wonders what he'll do about the Sheriff. She's not making much progress.

He looks outside and across the street; it's still dark on about a quarter of the downtown district. The power has gone out in a number of shops—even the hospital. Of course, that blackout only lasted a few minutes as he saw, before the backup generators presumably started running.

He's watching the snow—the town's notoriously slow with their salt. He'll likely not open shop for a few days, not to mention what this will do to his knee tomorrow. There's no love lost between him and in-climate weather, in this life.

He turns, as the door opens, to see the town's two most prominent medical men enter, Dr. Whale and Dr. Hopper. They sit down in a booth together and order. Gold watches as the psychiatrist and stutters out his order to the midriff-bearing waitress, scantily clad as ever, despite the biting cold. As the girl walks away, Dr. Whale just shakes his head at his flustered colleague.

Gold is just about to turn his attention back to his cup of coffee, when Whale suddenly jumps up.

"What's wrong?" Hopper asks.

"Problems with the generator. I have to go."

"What happened; should I come?" the jittery man asks, making to stand, but Whale gestures for him to stay put.

"No, almost everyone's fine. It's just the generator wasn't properly connected to—" The man drops off, as he slips on his jacket. He lowers his volume and continues, "the basement ward; you know the one."

Hopper's eyes go wide and he leans forward with interest (as does Gold), "Well, how long's it been off?"

Whale shrugs. "Long enough. I'll call you when I know more." Then, he's out the door and gone.

Fascinating. He'll have to look further into that, Gold thinks to himself. The dealmaker sits a while longer, watching the poor doctor fumble through small talk with the waitress. Finally, it's all his stomach can take. Gold leaves enough for his meager meal and drink, gathers his coat and exits without a word.

Gold takes his time, falling in this weather, _as well as life and body_, could have unfortunate consequences. He trudges slowly across the street in the direction of his home, located not too far from downtown. However, at the clock tower, he stops—for the darkness in the town has created a better view of the nighttime sky. With unusual reverie, he looks up to take in the constellations (he knows them all by heart and season. With two and half lifetimes under his belt, he certainly ought).

Suddenly, first one and then another shooting star flies past. His mouth forms a smile unbidden, and instantly he feels a warmth, as if hit by a sudden gust of tropical heat.

He doesn't see the salt truck.

Gold turns at the sound of the horn, but its icy tonight. He doesn't feel the impact.

And then, he feels like he's flying. Past stars, vaguely toward his right.


	3. The Room in the West Wing

**Summary: **Belle finds Rumpelstiltskin's room of broken baubles.

**Prompt****: **Could Have**  
****Prompt****: **Rumpelstiltskin's Sanctuary**  
Prompt: **a touch as soft as rose petals

* * *

Belle could have missed it, had she been born sure-footed, but alas, she is clumsy as a newborn foal and about as graceful. There is nothing wrong with the floor runner in the west wing, but she trips all the same, when she does, reaching out to the wall to grab anything to stop the fall.

The handle rather sort of fits into her hand-still she crumbles to a mess on the floor, but all the same, it helped a little. She pulls herself up, rubbing her hip. She will have a bruise tomorrow for certain. That's when she takes in the door.

She's not surprised that it differs from the previous doors lining the hallway, for all the doors in the west wing vary to some degree, but this door is very different. The mouth of a door is hardly visible, shadowed, though it's not further in depth than any of the others, and what's more, it positively drums its heart, asking her to enter.

Any other day, Belle would have walked away. She's no coward, but she's only lived in the Dark Castle a little over a month, but Rumpelstiltskin is gone a-dealmaking (the second time he has left since she's arrived), and in his absence, she feels bolder.

She realizes she's yet to let go of the doorknob. By the gods, this door and room are bloody curious. The trickster isn't here-he'll never know, she thinks, making her choice.

Belle turns the knob and knows two things instantly: the first, that she's most certainly not meant to be in this room (but then truly, didn't she know that already?), and the second, that this room is Rumpelstiltskin's sanctuary.

No, not his bedroom, for she knows where that is. She's cleaned it, dusted gods only know how many centuries of dirt from its corners, picked up his clothes from all about it. No, this room is something much more special. The place reeks of dark magic and humanity-feral, carnal, honest-to-the-gods humanity. She lets go of the handle and steps inside fully; this is the room Rumpelstiltskin goes to when he is angry.

This is the room of his tantrums.

Her heart beats in time with the sacrosanct haven, for the place is positively alive. Belle knows without a doubt what this place is. He comes here when he's boiling mad and the house is not full of enough breakables to suffice his child-like rage. She can her him, some nights, when he's finished off a bottle of wine or mead, or sometimes nothing at all, banging about. The racket terrified her at first. She worried he would come for her next, but in the morning he always looked composed, if not a little shamefaced, cordial and normal enough.

Well as normal as Rumpelstiltskin can be.

Belle looks about the room. The place is a nightmare in rainbow, a demon's playpen, for nothing in this room is sane. All its artifacts are warped and shaped into amalgamated golems of their former selves.

She appraises his varied collection: a pair of large, witches' dartboards, a smallish sailboat hanging from the ceiling with a broken mast, a stack of red explosives with block lettering she knows from cathay merchants that came to court years ago, chairs and tables no more than two alike and all with legs in varied colors and lengths, adorning the far wall fairies' wings-surely for costume-sport of some wealthy, royal family, far above her father's meager duchy-glistening in vibrant hues, odd and staring homunculus poppet-dolls with distorted forms and mismatched eyes and limbs, an average-looking buggy with three square wheels, potlids in all shapes and sizes and colors (but where are the pots and jars they top? In use upstairs in the alchemist laboratory?), a stuffed hog which bares some resemblance to a grandfather-pig the cook had kept in the stables one biting-cold winter, a bucket of umbrellas made of bat-wing lace, and lastly, scores containers.

All about the room are innumerable containers, in every nook and cranny, in ceramic, porcelain, glass, and even clay, All shapes and sizes. All very much breakable.

They are the most disturbing of all, for all are pieced back together in some stained-glass jigsaw puzzle gone made and oh-so-wrong. They look assembled by some excommunicated artisan to adorn an unholy, pagan chapel. If only there was light in the room-without-windows-and-reason to shine through them all and paint their wicked liturgies on the floor, Belle thinks. She's half tempted to go out and bring back a candle or twenty, but decides against it.

For the room is dark, and she is afraid.

Her stomach turns and perhaps that third scone had been too much at teatime (but the scones would be too old and hard tomorrow, and she'd been more bored than hungry) or more likely it's her body's way of whispering this place is full of danger. Belle decides it's best to leave, for she feels the dark magic of the place creeping and wrapping itself around her shoulders, like her hand had crept around that doorknob, and only returning to rooms with light and normalcy could shrug it off. She starts to turn, when something catches her eye in the far corner.

Belle stops suddenly; how had she not seen it before? The item is the only perfect, unbroken thing in the room. It must be.

She sees a dagger.

It is stunning and untainted-nothing like the rest of the bastards in the room.

Her eyes grow wide and suddenly, without remembering the steps it took, she stands before the brilliant dagger, held aloft by an uneven stand (even the shelves don't make sense in this place, not a one exactly level to the floor) of both metal and chokecherry wood. It shines, though there is hardly any light in the room; she must touch it. As she reaches for it, her hand shakes like the little water pot he's magic-ed to boil all of its own accord when set upon a certain copper plate. She takes it in hand. It's heavier than she expected, but as she turns it over in hand, she can tell it's exquisitely crafted, and when she lifts it to eye level, Belle sees it bears his name.

She reads the name to herself in a whisper, "Rumpelstiltskin."

"Having a little looksie, dearie?"

Startled, she turns and stumbles back into the stand. It clatters to the ground. The room eats up the sound and spits it back in echoes. "I'm sorry," she says out reflex.

Rumpelstiltskin stands, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes wild. "No matter," he says, but as he walks toward her, Belle can clearly see that Rumpelstiltskin most certainly does not view this as no matter. "Do you like my playroom, sweetling?"

"Your what?"

He continues to dance toward her much too fast, too eager, fingers steepled. "My playroom. It does after all play host to all my broken toys." He smiles at her, with an expectancy that's more frightening than anything Belle has seen yet. He snaps his finger, and the dagger stand raises on its own, tapping Belle on the rump.

She jumps forward, though not out of any desire to be nearer to the imp, quite the opposite in fact, turning to see what demon-chimera in the room has attacked her. She suddenly knows without having to be told that he stands close behind her.

"You see, dearie," and yes, Belle was right, because that voice is closer than before. "Things in this room have, how shall we say, a mind of their own."

She stands there, hands and dagger aloft. She'd put it back, wants to, but the stand is just out of reach. She's unable to move, fear the surest quicksand of all. She hears Rumpelstiltskin take a step and then another.

"Are you confused, dearie?"

Belle nods in spite of herself, though all she really wants is to get away.

"Oh course you are." Another step. "All these little bits, my baubles, can be repaired easily enough, but," he pauses in his monologue, and she can imagine how he looks, with his wild eyes and outlandish gestures, "you can only break something so many times before it refuses to go back exactly the same. Then all you're left with is spare parts."

"Spare parts?"

"Indeed. The lids for example, after a while, they just don't fit quite right anymore."

All she hears is their combined breathing, and the acid in her stomach churning, like a mill on the river, and then she hears her full skirts brush her stockings, as his legs push the billowing cloth forward-he's right behind her now.

"You like this one, I think," he says, low. "And does the lady know much about sword-play?" he asks, cryptically.

This is not the first time Belle has been asked this question. Though it's been nigh-on four years back, she recalls.

It's Mayday, and they sit on a hill by the river outside the village proper. "There, finally." She's managed at last to untangle the ribbon connecting her and Gaston's wrists, taken and tied by the children from the Maypole, as is the custom in Avonlea. However, Belle does not remember tying soon-to-be brides and bridegrooms together with such intricate knots back when she was a girl.

Her father chose today to announce their engagement, for today is the last festival before the men go off to war, and the whole town is drunk off frivolity and high hopes of returning before the harvest (oh, if only they'd known how many would be six feet below ground before the harvest). They'd stumbled through the Morris dance together, been knotted up, and after Gaston had pulled her off into the woods. She'd looked to her father, but he'd only nodded approvingly, and raised his own glass of May wine to the young couple.

"I have an idea," Gaston says.

"Oh?" First time for everything, she thinks, but then quickly regrets the thought. Her betrothed is by no means stupid. He simply lacks any inkling of creativity, or independent thought-he made for an excellent soldier.

"Let's go for a swim!" He begins to unbutton his light, summer's vest.

"It's freezing!"

He laughs, and she knows he's more than a little excited with May wine. "What? Worried over your betrothed seeing you in your underthings?" He's in just his silk shirt now, but even those laces are tied rather loosely. "Look," he points to the tree-line, "the hawthorn is in bloom-you'll not catch cold."

Belle knows that springtime bit of highland verse, for the wives' tale has made it even down to these parts, but that song's about coats and children and no, she's not afraid or prudish, gods know, but it's just that he's a bit too insistent for her liking. Belle doesn't like to be told.

She hears Gaston unbuckle his sword-belt, dropping the small dagger in its scabbard on the grass, crushing a few dandelions. As he stands, Belle picks up the piece, taking it from it's sheath. It's small, worn more for show and ease of mobility on festival day.

He has his shirt up to his shoulders, when he hears the sound of her unsheathing the weapon. He stops and stares at her. Laughing he asks, watching her take stock of the weapon in her tiny, right hand, "Know anything about sword-play?"

He's a little drunk off May wine, she knows this, but there's a mocking glint in his eye that she doesn't much like-she's no court jester to be made the fool of, and what's more, she may be a princess, but she's not unknown to war and hardship (her father's no treasury scroll-keep, but he's a smart enough man to know that knowledge of sword and defense know no gender). Belle tosses Gaston the shortsword, which he does catch. She then pulls one from where it is always strapped to her thigh. "Yes, care to spare?" she asks, even though he's too drunk for sport, and she herself is more than a little tipsy, but she wants to see what her newly betrothed is made of.

He laughs her off, but the toss and her own weapon has him confused-she can see it in his eyebrows. "You're joking," he says and turns to run down the hill to the river for that swim he'd talked of. "Come on. We'll swim. I'll teach you."

Ah, presumptive and cock-sure. At his simple sentences, her cheeks go red with more than just May wine. Belle makes her choice, standing. I can slash and stab and maim and hew. I'm known down in the weapon keep , she thinks. I'll show you , she thinks. Belle takes the weapon by the tip with nimble, tingling fingers, and she gives herself a wipe margin of error, because Gaston's not the only one to have a bit too much drink today. She throws the dagger to a large oak off her fiance's right shoulder. As he turns, incredulous, Belle smiles.

"I'm a bit tired. I think I'll go back now," she says, taking the crown of flowers (sweet-woodruff and May blossoms. She's too old, even for a princess to be wearing lily-of-the-valley) from her hair, letting it fall to the ground. As she prances up the hill, she smirks as she hears it take Gaston not one, but two attempts to pull the dagger from the tree trunk.

So yes, she knows sword-play. No, Belle doesn't smell woodruff and hawthorn. Instead, she smells old sweat, pungent and angry and fearful , but that last must only be her, because it couldn't possibly be Rumpelstiltskin. No, her cheeks aren't red from May wine, indignation or innuendo, but rather from fright and that strange tingle his moist breathe keeps sending down her spine each time he takes in and shoots out air. Sends it all the way down her spine to her stocking-ed feet.

She knows sword-play, but the way her heart is beating from her ears to ankles, she can hardly answer in the affirmative. Instead, she asks the question she for some odd reason finds very important, "Why does it say your name?" she whispers.

Rumpelstiltskin chuckles, "Because it's mine ." He leans in closer, his hands ghost past her elbows, and she's lucky when his hands cover her own, because otherwise the touch would have caused her to drop the thing and likely cut off her own toes. "And now, I'm going to tell you a secret: this toy is my most favorite ." He runs his thumb along the name and over her own right one, that holds the dagger hilt. "What's more, if you ever come into this room again or play with this particular bauble," he slowly moves his left hand to the center of the knife, taking hold with his cursed hand at the middle of his name. With his right hand, he takes her wrist off the hilt. "I will have to add a new plaything to my little collection up here. Do you take my meaning, dearie?"

Belle shivers, as his right hand slides up her arm, hanging limp at her side, to her shoulder. Rumpelstiltskin brushes her hair away from the right side of her neck, the better to lean in, the better to hear the beat of her heart. He then takes hold of the dagger hilt. "You have after all hear me in here, I'm sure."

She nods, her breathing labored, because yes, gods she has. Riotous noise beyond control. Until teatime where he arrives moody, but composed, or not at all. She doesn't know what to make of it all, and she's only just got here .

"That's right," he giggles, bolder now, and removes her left hand with his from his weapon. "You know what I do in here," with each word he taps the dagger from collarbone to collarbone. Belle steps back and further into him, away from the dark magic, because something has shifted just then , but she's no idea what or how and wants out of this bloody room. "And you know what that means for you, if I catch you in here ever again," he hums in her ear, "don't you?"

"Yes."

"What's that now?" Rumpelstiltskin lifts the dagger flat under her chin, too far in for her liking, but there's nowhere else for her to go. He tilts the tip and her chin up, opening her neck to him. She's entirely vulnerable. He settles there, resting his chin against her skin, soft as rose petals, "I didn't quite catch it. Do we understand the rules, dearie?"

"I understand," she implores, hoping, he'll lower the damn pointy thing.

He doesn't. "Good, because I'm not one to give second chances. No try try agains." Though he's looking up at her with a smile, his eyes are feral as the room, and they both know who holds the reigns-this isn't about a broken cup, after all. "I'll shut that door and show you just exactly how I break my playthings, and as we know, things in this room never magic back the way they came." He cackles then, loud and insane.

It's too much; Belle bursts out of is grip ( and he lets her ), the dagger just grazing under her chin, but she won't feel that, no, not with all the adrenalin. She won't feel that until she slows, until she's cried out all her fear.

She runs from him and the room and the whole west wing. In her haste, she stumbles twice on that damned runner , because she's bloody terrified, even though he brought her elderberries from the south-tiny, misshapen bits that they were, for it's too early in the season even where he went-on his first trip and she made them into marmalade tarts that he actually complemented, and he made her a new dress for cleaning, and it's just a cup he'd said, Rumpelstiltskin is still a fucking madman and she's to live with him. Forever.

"'Till dinner then," he crows down the hall at her back, laughing manic and maniacal, before slamming the door. Between the pounding of her steps and lungs, she hears the violent reverie begin.

* * *

By the time Belle's gotten her wits about her, the smashing has stopped.

He could have killed me, she thinks. In retrospect, she knows the theatricality was mostly for show, but he was wilder than she's ever seen him, and he has succeeded in frightening her. Much as she'd like not to, she goes down for dinner. However, she makes Brussels sprouts, partly because it's what they have in the cellar, partly because Rumpelstiltskin hates them ( he hates all green things, without exception ). Mostly the second part.

She serves the meal in the great hall, and sits down to wait for him.

He doesn't come.

By the time the food's gone cold, Belle huffs, rolls her eyes and serves herself a plate. She'd wait no longer.

By the time, she is halfway finishes with the chilly meal, he waltzes in. She looks up-for she won't show how much he has scared her today with his little game-he's the same as always, excepting that his sleeves are rolled up. The better for destroying toys , she thinks.

"Ah, I see I haven't sent you running back home just yet."

Belle glares at him, but then goes back to her dinner, "We made a deal. I'm not one to go back on my word."

Rumpelstiltskin scoffs, throwing himself down at the head of the table. "Hm."

"What?" she asks, innocently.

"I see you've made Brussels sprouts."

"Oh, yes, I did," she says, face expressionless. He may not know she's good at knife-throwing, but she has no problem letting him know she's very good at passive aggression.

He twirls his wrist and suddenly steam is rising from the platters. Not hers, however. Belle shakes her head at him and his magic, the clever bastard.

They are silent for the rest of the meal, but when Belle stands to collect the plates to take to the kitchen for scrubbing, he grabs her wist. She only jumps a little. "What's this then?" he asks, eyeing something on her face.

"Have I got food on myself?" she asks, reaching for a napkin, though she's all too conscious that he still has hold of her other wrist.

Rumpelstiltskin rises and takes her chin in his hand. He tilts it up- just as before . "Not food, dearie, blood ."

"Oh, that," she says and stops herself from swallowing. You did that.

He runs his thumb over the shallow scrape, and Belle feels magic tingle from his too-warm fingers into her chin. After a second it stops. He runs his thumb over the now-mended skin; she feels no pain, just heat. "That should do it," he says, finally letting go. "Wouldn't want any scars now, would we?" At that, he exits, leaving her to clean up alone.

In her room that night, Belle examines the magic-ed wound. Rumpelstiltskin lied to her; it's not a perfect fix, for a thin, pink line remains. She supposes it is a good reminder in any case that when put back together with magic, nothing is ever exactly the same.


	4. Ne'rdowell

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything

**Summary: **Belle attempts to teach Mr. Gold how to use chopsticks. Teen!Belle

Lifted the idea of Teen!Belle from rufeepeach's Time Frames. As well as the reference to her Rabbits on the Run (can you spot it?).

* * *

In their past life, he had been the one doing the teaching. He'd vanished them to Cathay with the snap of a finger and the twirl of a wrist. He'd mocked her half the afternoon over the mess she'd made with only two sticks and a bowl of cold, spicy noodles. The mess had necessitated his buying her something more suitable—as in less sticky—to wear for the remainder of their trip. After he'd finished the reason for the journey, a dark deal with a royal concubine over a suitable poison for the son of the empress (Belle had remained with the servants. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her, only the crown princeling), they'd taken tea, steeped in all its eastern frippery, before he'd magic-ed them back to the Dark Castle.

Not empty handed, of course. No, never empty-handed where Belle was concerned. They'd returned with cloth from silk worms in vibrant reds and blues, and growling stomachs—neither quite grasping the skill of Far Eastern cutlery. She'd squeezed him tight, tired and smelling of strange spices, kissing him on the cheek before hurrying up the stairs to bed.

In this life, it was decidedly more simple. Well, for Belle at least.

"No, no, you don't hold them like that. Do it like this," the young, sweet—but sharp as any steak knife when she needed to do some cutting—voice reprimands. Always scolding him, she is. It had started before their food had even arrived. The chopsticks at Storybrooke's one Chinese restaurant were the cheap, splintering variety, the kind that come in plastic wrap that you have to tear apart before you can use them. When he'd rubbed the two sticks against one another to get off any lingering wood slivers, but she'd wagged a finger. "That's _very _rude. Don't do it!"

Now, she takes hold of his hands as if they are her own, which they may well be if he is honest with himself, rearranging the utensils. "The bottom one like a pencil. Keep it steady. You only move the top one. Yes, that's a bit better."

No, it isn't better, Mr. Gold finds, as he drops his dumpling, as he moves over the expanse between plate and mouth. It lands in his lap with squish. "God damnit," he grumbles.

Belle can't help but hide a giggle behind a hand. Her own chopsticks are expertly managed between her fingers, he notes.

Mr. Gold glares at her, "Not funny, dearie. I'll have to get this cleaned now."

She rolls her eyes at him, "You always get your suits dry-cleaned. Who's the one who has to pick them up after school, hm?"

Ah yes, school, for his ward, Belle French, is seventeen and a senior at Storybrooke High School. He's fostered her since her father's death nine years ago. They are an anomaly, the town odd couple.

No one knew quite what to make of it, when after the florist's car accident, the infamous pawnbroker most uncharacteristically took in the waif out of the (up until that point, unknown, assumed nonexistent) kindness of his heart.

Call it penance, he'd justified the day, he'd taken the shaken girl from the nun's makeshift foster home. On the drive to his house, in his uncomfortably silent Cadillac, he'd slipped, calling the place 'foster hell.' Belle (his Belle, now) had laughed, and they'd taken to calling it such ever since.

Paying penance was true enough, for Mr. Gold had given Moe French the loan to finance the purchase of the van that had been his untimely end. The little girl had been lucky, the man's truck had fishtailed on the ice, having gone and picked up his daughter one winter's day from school, and gone down a ravine, flipping, killing the unbuckled father, but leaving the properly buckled child simply banged up.

Those first weeks had been the worst. She would stare off into space, until he had to shake consciousness back into her eyes. She'd been half crazy—still was some days.

But today, she is seventeen, and too damn smart for her own good.

When the little shit who had promised to take her out for a quiet birthday dinner had stood up the little lady, feigning illness, Gold, in a momentary lapse of judgment distracted by the look of disappointment in her eyes, had offered to take her out, in the boy's stead. Anywhere, he'd said.

Anywhere indeed. She _knew_ he hated foreign food. But here they be (and still bloody hungry in this life too).

She picks up her own dumpling—neither by stabbing it, nor with fork or finger. She manages like she was raised on them. He tries so very hard not to watch her eat, but when she raises her eyes, she catches him. She grins, as he looks away.

If Mr. Gold was feeling particularly wicked, he is close enough he could bat a hand at her elbow, knock the slippery thing from her hold, in jest, but that would require touching her—something he largely avoids like the plague. She sits just across the tiny, linoleum table, so close yet forever too far away. Instead of touching her or watching her eat her birthday meal, he stares at cheap prints of famous watercolors and pots of bamboo around the room.

Mr. Gold can hardly believe that little shit had the nerve to stand up this goddess in the making. On his way home from the shop, he'd seen the little fucker, out back behind the Old Woman Lucas' diner, where the high school boys tended to congregate in the evening—best views up Miss Lucas' skirts, rumor had it.

The young knight had been smoking with a group of hooligans, he vaguely recalled as the lower ranks of the merry men (still up to no good this world and the last), clearly not on the deathbed he'd claimed. At the sight, he'd considered killing the boy then and there, but murder seemed so much worse here, so he'd gone home and done the next best thing, which had been to console his little ward. Followed, by making an ill-thought through bargain.

Now, he must eat the bitter fruit of his deal. Gold gives up, setting down the chopsticks. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to starve me are, m'dear."

She laughs, which turns into a tiny, half-hearted cough, but he hears the tell-tale wheeze buried there, not deep, not _yet_. Which reminds him.

"Dearie, that cough doesn't sound so good." He motions for the server, who comes swiftly, Gold's reputation preceding him. He's about to ask for a fork, but she beats him to it, anticipating his needs, at which she's become quite adept in their nine years together. "I do hope you aren't catching what your boy has."

His Belle does her best not to look guilty. What's more she almost manages it, for she's much better at duplicity in this life—having watched the guiles of an old dragon the larger half of her youth.

He thinks on that a moment—the idea coming out of nowhere. Belle's lived with him for longer than she's lived with her father now, on this, her seventeenth birthday. He wonders if she's thought on this fact, if it would make her feel as satisfied as it makes him feel or if she'd hate him for it. The later probably.

"No, I don't think so. Allergies is all."

Mr. Gold gives her a knowing look. "Good thing. I wouldn't want my windowsills to suffer overmuch with a prolonged illness." He says it, not so much because she has put out the nasty things on the windowsill. His girl is more conscientious than that, but she'd take his meaning all the same.

"Your sills?" Belle asks. Then, for he reads it on her face—could read anything on her face after watching it these past three decades—she realizes just exactly what he's saying, and what he's left unsaid, for that's how it's always worked in their house, their _home_. They play a constant word game of wit and deciphering, of crushing honesty and painted, little omitances and lies. It's a thrilling game that makes his blood thrum in his veins and makes her pink in the cheeks with anger and delight. "_Oh_."

"Oh, indeed."

"How could you tell?"

"Because I'm not that old, dearie." Gold had taken note of the sudden increase in room fresheners and the vague smell of cigarette smoke on her fingers the very next day, after she'd first lit up, presumably hanging out the east-facing window in her room, just down the hall—twelve steps to be specific, not that he's counted or anything of that nature. "You know I won't abide smoking in the house," he says, and there's that game of theirs again, for he's left 'I won't abide _you_ smoking' unsaid.

"Yes, but _you _wouldn't let me try your pipe."

Her words strike a chord, and he growls, all bark and no bite, "Petulant child." The waitress finally brings him an instrument he can actually use. He accepts it wordlessly and motions his hand, dismissing her.

Belle shakes her head, shrugging at the put-off waitress. Once she's gone, she says, "That wasn't very nice. It's not her fault you're shite at chopsticks, you know."

He can't help, but smile at her use of one of his curses. However, that doesn't change the fact that her words have upset him. The very idea that he's driven her to this sits wrong in his empty (damned sticks) stomach and sets his jaw a-grinding.

He wants to keep her pure and perfect, but he knows all too well she isn't. Hasn't been for sometime, not since her father, the oath, drove that fucking truck off the side of the road, the truck Gold had financed. Just another item to add to the list of sins. He's killed her, driven her to orphaned madness, now smoking and cursing too. That's four. What else will he drive her to before the end?

But the word, little and trivial as it is, reminds him all the same that she's seventeen, and that he isn't her father—to pretend at that old line is just damned ridiculous when he stares at her mouth, her hands and her throat (all the vulnerable bits) half the time and imagines them the rest. "That boy get you started on this?" he asks, because he's a coward, and he'd much rather place the blame somewhere else, at least for this little piece of corruption.

Belle shakes her head. "No." Then she smirks, and leans forward—he's pleased she wears a modest t-shirt today. "But I did steal them from his truck."

"What a little thief you are. Taking a poor boy's smokes and lighter."

"Not the lighter. I took that from you."

"Oh, did you now?" He thinks back to his snuffbox, but doesn't recall seeing anything amiss. "However did you manage that?"

"I took the matches from the kitchen. Knew you wouldn't notice."

It's true, since entering middle school, the kitchen had largely become her domain. She could have lifted the sink out from under him, and Gold would have been hard pressed to take note. Devious little ne'r-do-well, his Belle.

"I do hope you don't plan on continuing this life of crime."

"I'm not worried. If I ever do get caught, you can be my lawyer, and everyone knows how it goes when you're on the defense team."

He's taken to letting her play at being his paralegal. If only she'd get out of this dead-end town, she might actually make something of herself—then he'd have to relearn that damn kitchen, sink or no. "Don't think you could afford my fees, dearie."

She pouts at him, with lips too-full, but she'll grow into them. Even in her child's face, he knows that look. That's her stubborn face. "I'm not going to stop." _You_ can't make me stop, she leaves unsaid.

Mr. Gold sighs. "Well, Belle, legally, you're not allowed to smoke. Not until you're eighteen."

"That's not right. There's no such thing as a smoking age. I looked it up in your books."

His Belle would, too. "Fine, you're legally disallowed from the purchasing of cigarettes," he amends, begrudgingly.

She beams at him—his Belle loves proving him wrong. "It's a stupid rule. In Europe it's much lower," she says, trying to look flippant, but her eyes give away her hopefulness.

She's baiting him and his supposed European roots. He won't fall for it. "Aye, but we're the wrong side of the pond for all that."

"You let me have wine," Belle complains.

"_With_ the seltzer."

"It's the same thing." She crosses her arms, pouting at him, though she knows how he hates the pouting.

He really shouldn't give in. It will just encourage her, but Gold's always had a soft spot for this little lady. "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal."

Belle's eyes perk up at his words, waiting for him to continue.

"You hold off on this little rebellion for a year, and I'll let you try the pipe." He refers to the evenings when they sit on the balcony, taking tea. She usually reads while he, on occasion smokes a very fine pipe.

Mr. Gold can tell she's debating—for that's another thing in their house, one _always_ honors one's agreements, no lies or going back on a promise once given (_he did say forever, after all). _She's waffling, he sees, so he sweetens the pot, "and I'll oblige you the occasional cigarette?"

That brings a smile. "Deal," Belle says.

He smiles too, though he doesn't much like the idea of his girl smoking, but she's seventeen. She's growing up—whether he likes it or not, knows what to do with it, or not. Mr. Gold motions for the check wordlessly, pays and soon enough they're out the door.

"So, what do you want for dinner?" she asks.

"Dearie, we just ate."

"_I_ just ate. You sat there and made a mess of yourself." She motions to his dirty suit. "What can I make you?"

"It's your birthday, dear. I shouldn't make you cook."

"You aren't making me. I'm offering," Belle scolds. All the same, she loops her arm through his, as they walk to the car. "What sounds good?"

"Anything that doesn't require chopsticks will suit, dearie."


End file.
